BATTLE OF CORINTH

Captain Dunn, the “Mormon”—Paroles—Baldwin—On to Corinth—Conscription—Looking for Breakfast—The Army Trapped—A Skirmish—Escape—Holly Springs—Battle of Corinth—Casualties—Cavalry Again.

Captain Dunn, of Company F, was one of our badly wounded men, one of his legs having been broken by a grape shot. Captain Dunn was a unique character. He was a lawyer by profession, a very bright fellow, and lived at Athens, Tex. The first I ever knew of him he came to Rusk just before the war, to deliver an address to a Sunday-school convention. He was a very small man. In fact, so diminutive in stature that he was almost a dwarf. He was a brave, gallant soldier, a companionable, pleasant associate, and much of a wag. He was a great lover of fun, so much so that he would sacrifice comfort and convenience and risk his reputation in order to perpetrate a joke.

The ladies who came to nurse and care for our wounded soldiers at Iuka were like other women in one particular respect, at least,—they were desirous to know whether the soldiers were married or single, religious or otherwise, and if religious, their church relationship, denominational preferences and so on, and would converse with the boys with a view of learning these particulars. The usual questions were put to Captain Dunn by one of these self-sacrificing attendants. He made no effort to deny that he was married and, with some hesitation, frankly acknowledged that he was a member of the church of the Latter Day Saints, usually called Mormons, which was enough information for one interview. With the exclamation, “Why, you a Mormon!” the woman retired. In whispers she soon imparted to all the other ladies who visited the hospital the astounding information that one of the Texas soldiers was a Mormon. They were incredulous, but after being vehemently assured by the interviewer that she had it from his own lips, some believed it was true, while others believed it was a joke or a mistake. To settle the question they appointed a committee of discreet ladies to ascertain the truth of the matter, and the committee promptly waited upon Captain Dunn. Without loss of time in preliminaries, the spokeswoman of the committee said: “Captain Dunn, we have heard that you are a Mormon and have come to you, as a committee, to learn the truth of the matter. Are you a Mormon?” “Yes, madam,” said Captain Dunn. “Have you more than one wife?” “Yes,” said Captain Dunn, “I have four wives.” “Captain Dunn, don’t you think it awful wrong? Don’t you think it’s monstrous to be a Mormon?” “No, madam,” said Dunn, “that’s my religion, the religion I was brought up in from childhood. All of my regiment are Mormons. All of them that are married have two or more wives. The colonel has six; some have four, and some five, just as they may feel able to take care of them.” A meeting of the ladies was then called, an indignation meeting, and indignation was expressed in unmeasured terms. The very idea! that they had scraped lint, torn their best garments into bandages, had cooked and brought soups and all the delicacies they could prepare to the hospital—done all they could, even to the offering up their prayers, for a detestable Mormon, with four wives! It was unanimously resolved that it could be done no longer. From that good hour, in passing through the hospital ministering to the wants of all the other wounded, they gave Dunn not even as much as a look, to say nothing of smiles, cups of cold water, soups, cakes, pies, and other more substantial comforts.

This neglect of Captain Dunn was eventually noticed by the other soldiers, talked of, and regretted by them and its cause inquired into. They earnestly interceded with the ladies in his behalf, and urged them that whatever Captain Dunn’s faults might be, he was a brave Confederate soldier, and had been severely wounded in an attempt to defend their homes, that he was suffering greatly from his wounds; that if he was a Mormon he was a human being, and for humanity’s sake he deserved some attention and sympathy, and should not be allowed to die through neglect. This argument finally prevailed, the resolution was rescinded, and the captain fared well for the rest of the time, even better than he had before the matter came up.

One day one of the ladies asked Captain Dunn how it happened that he got his leg so badly crushed. In the most serious manner he said to her: “Well, madam, I am captain of a company, and when we got into the battle the Yankees began shooting cannonballs at us, and to protect my men I got out in front of them and would catch the cannonballs as they came and throw them back at the Yankees; but when the battle grew real hot they came so fast I couldn’t catch all of them, and one of them broke my leg.”

As soon as our men thought they were able to travel they were paroled and allowed to go free. When Captain Dunn was paroled he went to Texas for a rest, until he supposed he might be exchanged. On his return, he was traveling through Arkansas when a woman on the train asked him where he was going? He replied, “Madam, I am going to Richmond in the interest of the women of Texas. I am going to make an effort to induce the Confederate congress, in view of the great number of men that are being killed in the war, to pass a law providing that every man, after the war ends, shall have two wives.”

When paroling our people their paroles were filled out by a Federal officer and presented to them for their signatures. The majority of the men cared little about the form, but only of the fact that they were to be allowed to go free until they were exchanged. But when they came to Colonel Mabry he read the parole over very carefully. He was described as H. P. Mabry, a colonel in the “so-called Confederate States Army.” Mabry shook his head and said, “Sir, can you not leave out that ‘so-called?’” He was informed that it could not be done. “Then,” said the colonel, “I will not sign it.” “In that case,” said the officer, “you will have to go to prison.” “Well,” Mabry replied, “I will go to prison and stay there until I rot before I will sign a parole with that ‘so-called Confederate States’ in it.”

Captain Lee, of the Third Texas, was of the same way of thinking, and they both went to prison and remained there until they were exchanged, being sent to some prison in Illinois. Some months after they were exchanged and came back to us we captured some prisoners one day. One of them inquired if the Third Texas was there, and was told that it was. “Then,” said he, “take me to Colonel Mabry or Captain Lee, and I’ll be all right.” This man was a “copperhead” whose acquaintance they had made while in prison. He didn’t want to serve in the army against us, but had been drafted in, and was glad of an opportunity of changing his uniform.

At Baldwin about two days was spent in preparation for a march to Ripley, there to join General Van Dorn’s command for a move on Corinth. I was on fatigue duty while at Baldwin, and had no time to recuperate after the hard campaign to Iuka and back, having been on guard duty the night before arriving at Ripley. We camped at that town one night and started next morning, September 29, 1862, for Corinth, General Van Dorn in command. On that morning I found myself with a fever, and feeling unequal to a regular march I obtained permission to march at will, and found Lieutenant R. L. Hood and F. M. Dodson in the same condition and having a like permit. We joined our forces and moved up the hot, dusty road about six miles. Being weary, footsore, and sick, we turned into the woods, lay down and went to sleep under some oak trees and did not wake until the beef cattle were passing us in the afternoon. This meant that we had slept until the entire army was ahead of us—cavalry, infantry, artillery, and wagon train. We moved on until night without overtaking our command. Nearing the village of Ruckersville it occurred to me that many years ago this had been the post office of Peter Cotten, my mother’s brother. Stopping at a house to make inquiries, I learned that Willis Cook, his son-in-law, lived only three-quarters of a mile west of the village. We turned in that direction, and soon found the place without difficulty. My call at the gate was answered by my uncle at the front door. I recognized his voice, although I had not heard it since I was a small boy. Going into the house I made myself known to him and his daughter, Mrs. Crook, and received a cordial welcome, such a welcome as made me and my comrades feel perfectly at home. My good cousin, Tabitha, whose husband, Willis Crook, was in the cavalry service, and in the army then on its way to Corinth, soon had a splendid supper ready for us and in due time offered us a nice bed. We begged out of occupying the beds, however, and with their permission stretched our weary limbs under a shade tree in the yard and enjoyed a good night’s sleep.

Next morning one or two of the party had chills, and we rested for the day. We soon learned that a Federal cavalry command had dropped in behind our army, and so we were cut off. Had we gone on in the morning we would probably have been captured during the day. Learning how we could find parallel roads leading in the direction we wished to go, late in the evening we started, traveled a few miles and slept in the woods. The next morning we moved on until ten o’clock, and meeting a ten-year-old boy on a pony in a lane, we asked him if he knew where we could get something to eat. He said there was a potato patch right over there in the field. We asked him to whom it belonged, and he answered: “It belongs to my uncle; but he is laying out in the brush to keep out of the army;” and told us that his uncle lived up on the hill a short distance ahead of us. We did not go into the potato patch, but went up to the uncle’s house. The house was a fairly good one, and in the front were two good-sized rooms with a wide, open hall. As we marched up to the rail fence in front of the house a woman came out into the hall, and we could see that the very looks of us aggravated and annoyed her. By way of getting acquainted with her, Dodson said: “Madam, have you got any water?” In a sharp, cracked voice, she answered: “I reckon I have. If I hain’t, I would be in a mighty bad fix!” Having it understood that Dodson was to do the talking, we marched in and helped ourselves to a drink of water each, from a bucket setting on a shelf in the hall. During the next few minutes silence of the most profound sort prevailed. We stood there as if waiting to be invited to sit down and rest, but instead of inviting us to seats she stood scowling on us as if she was wishing us in Davy Jones’ locker or some similar place. Hood and myself finally moved a little towards the front of the hall, and the following dialogue took place between Dodson and the woman: Dodson: “Madam, we are soldiers and are tired and hungry. We have been marching hard, and last night we slept in the woods and haven’t had anything to eat. Could we get a little something here?” “No, you can’t. I don’t feed none of your sort. You are just goin’ about over the country eatin’ up what people’s got, and a-doin’ no good.” “Why, madam, we are fighting for the country.” “Yes, you are fightin’ to keep the niggers from bein’ freed, and they’ve just as much right to be free as you have.” “Oh, no, madam; the Bible says they shall be slaves as long as they live.” “The Bible don’t say no sech a thing.” “Oh, yes, it does,” said Dodson, gently; “let me have your Bible and I’ll show it to you.” “I hain’t got no Bible.” “Madam, where is your husband?” “That’s none of your business, sir!” “Is he about the house, madam?” “No, he ain’t.” “Is he in the army, madam?” “No, he ain’t. If you must know, he’s gone off to keep from bein’ tuk to Ripley and sold for twenty-five dollars.” “Why, madam, is he a nigger?” “No, he ain’t a nigger; he’s just as white as you air, sir.” “Well, madam, I didn’t know that they sold white men in Mississippi.” “No, you don’t know what your own people’s a-doin’.” During the conversation I kept my eye on the lowest place in the fence. What she said about being sold for twenty-five dollars was in allusion to a reward of that amount offered by the conscript authorities for able-bodied men who were hiding in the brush to keep out of the army.

That night we lodged with a good old Confederate who treated us the best he could. Next morning Dodson bought a pony from him, which we used as a pack-horse to carry our luggage. We then moved much easier. Late in the evening we crossed Hatchie River on the bridge over which the army had passed on its way to Corinth. Here we found Adam’s Brigade and Whitfield’s Legion guarding the bridge, that it might be used in the event of the army’s being compelled to retreat. This bridge was only a short distance south of the Memphis & Charleston Railroad, and a few miles west of Corinth. We took the railroad and followed it nearly all night, turning off to sleep a little while before daylight. Early in the morning we struck across into the main-traveled road, and pushed on in an effort to rejoin our command. About nine or ten o’clock we came to a house, and determined to try for some breakfast, as we were quite hungry. We afterwards learned that a poor old couple occupied the house. Walking up to the front door we asked the old lady if we could get some breakfast, telling her we had been out all night and were hungry, and so on, the usual talk. She very readily said, yes, if we would wait until she could prepare it. She then invited us to come in and be seated, and said she would have the meal ready in a few minutes.

In a little while she came back and invited us in to breakfast in a little side room used for a kitchen and dining-room. As we started in I was in front, and as we entered the little dining-room and came in sight of the table she began to apologize because she was unable to give us anything more. I glanced at the table and saw a small, thin hoe-cake of corn bread and a few small slices of bacon, “only this and nothing more.” I asked her if that was all she had. She answered that it was. Then I said, “Where are you going to get more when that is gone?” She did not know. Not doubting the truth of her statements, I said: “Madam, while we are hungry and do not know when we will get anything to eat, we could not take all you have. While we are just as thankful to you as if you had given us a bountiful breakfast, we are soldiers, and can manage to get something to eat somewhere, and will leave this for you and your husband,” and we bade her good-by without sitting down to the table or tasting her scanty offering.

This poor old woman, who must have been sixty or more years old, had said, without a murmur and without hesitation or excuse, that she would prepare us some breakfast, and gone about it as cheerfully as if she had had an abundance, cooking us all the provisions she had, and only regretted she could not do more for us,—this, too, when not knowing where she would get any more for herself.

After leaving this humble abode we soon began to meet troops, ambulances, and so on, and from them we learned that our army was falling back. Instead of going farther we stopped on the roadside and waited for our command. Noticing a squad of soldiers out some distance from the road engaged apparently about something unusual, my curiosity led me out to where they were. To my surprise I found they were Madison County, Alabama, men, most of whom I knew. They were burying a poor fellow by the name of Murry, whom I had known for years, and who lived out near Maysville. They had rolled him up in his blanket and were letting him down into a shallow grave when I approached, and they told me that some of the boys that I knew were wounded—in a wagon just across the road. I soon found my old friends, John M. Hunter and Peter Beasley, of Huntsville, Ala., in a common, rough road-wagon. Poor Hunter! he was being hauled over the long, rough road only that he might die among his friends, which he did in a few days. Beasley was not dangerously wounded.

We soon after joined our command and marched westward toward Hatchie bridge. But long before we got there Generals Ord and Hurlbut had come down from Bolivar, Tenn., with a heavy force of fresh troops, had driven our guards away, and were in undisputed possession of the crossing. Whitfield’s Legion had been on the west side and had been so closely crowded, with such a heavy fire concentrated on the bridge, that they had to take to the water to make their escape.

Here was a problem confronting General Van Dorn, a problem which must be speedily solved, otherwise a dire calamity awaited his whole army. These two divisions of fresh troops were in front of an army of tired, hungry, worn-out Confederates, with General Grant’s victorious army only a few miles in our rear. What was called the boneyard road ran some miles south of us and crossed the river on a bridge at Crum’s Mill; but this bridge, as a precautionary measure, had just been burned, and even now its framework was still aflame. The route we were on led west from Corinth parallel with, and but a little south of, the Memphis & Charleston Railroad, crossing Hatchie only a short distance south of Pocahontas. After crossing the river we would turn south on the main Ripley road, and this road ran parallel with the river, passing not far, three or four miles perhaps, west of Crum’s Mill, so that a force might move rapidly from Corinth, on the boneyard road, cross at Crum’s Mill and strike us in the flank and possibly capture our trains. Hence the precaution of burning this bridge. Everything of our army, whether on wheels, on foot, or on horseback, was now between Ord and Hurlbut in front and Grant and Rosecrans in the rear, without a crossing on Hatchie. The trains were parked, with a view, as I was told at the time, to burning them, leaving the troops to get out as they could, and we already had visions of swimming the stream. Personally I was wondering how much of my luggage I could get over with, and whether or not I could make it with a dry gun and cartridge box. General Price, in this dilemma, undertook to get the trains out, and he succeeded notably.

We had a pretty heavy skirmish with the forces at the bridge, with infantry and artillery, but only to divert attention from the trains as they moved out to gain the boneyard road. General Price went to the mill and, pulling down the gable end, cast it on the mill dam, and thus made a temporary bridge over which the trains and artillery were driven. Then that gallant old man, who had just proved himself to be as much at home acting as chief wagon master as when commanding his army corps, sat on his horse at the end of his unique bridge nearly all night, hurrying the wagons and artillery across. On the west bank of the stream he kept a bonfire alight, which threw a flickering glare across the bridge. As each teamster drove on to the east end of the queer bridge he would slow up his team and peer through the dim light for the proper and safe route. Just as he would slow up one could hear the loud, distinct voice of “Old Pap” shouting: “Drive up there! Drive up! Drive up! Drive up!” And thus it continued until every wheel had rolled across to the west side of the Hatchie.

After we left the vicinity of the bridge and after the skirmishing ceased, there was no time for order in marching, unless it was with the rear-guard; no time to wait for the trains to stretch out into the road and to follow it then in twos. We fell into the road pell-mell, and moved in any style we wished to, in among the wagons, or any way just so we moved along and kept out of the way of those behind us. During the afternoon, in the middle of the road, I stumbled upon a small pile of corn meal, half a gallon, maybe, that had sifted out of a commissary wagon, and gathered part of it into my haversack, mixed with a little dirt. I crossed the bridge away along, I suppose, about 11 P. M., after which I stopped and watched General Price’s maneuvers and the crossing of the wagons until after midnight.

In the meantime I hunted around and found an old castaway tin cup, dipped up some river water and made up some dough, and then spreading it out on a board, I laid it on General Price’s fire until it was partially cooked. Surely it was the most delicious piece of bread I have ever tasted, even to this day.

When a good portion of the Third Texas had come up we moved on into the Ripley road and were sent northward for a mile or two, where we lay in line of battle in ambush, near the road until the trains had all passed.

After daylight we moved on towards Ripley, being again permitted to march at will, as we had marched the night before. Approaching Ruckersville my heart turned again toward my good cousin, Tabitha Crook. Taking little David Allen with me, I made haste to find her home. Arriving there a short time before dinner, I said to her, “Cousin, I am powerful hungry.” “Oh, yes,” she said, “I know you are, Willis came by home last night, nearly starved to death.” Soon we were invited into her dining-room and sat down to a dinner fit for a king. Here I met her brother, George Cotten, whom I had never seen before. After dinner Mrs. Crook insisted that we rest awhile, which we did, and presently she brought in our haversacks filled up, pressed down, and running over with the most palatable cooked rations, such as fine, light biscuits, baked sweet potatoes, and such things, and my mess rejoiced that night that I had good kins-people in that particular part of Mississippi, as our camp rations that night were beef without bread.

We then moved on to Holly Springs and rested for some days, after a fatiguing and disastrous campaign, which cost us the loss of many brave soldiers, and lost General Van Dorn his command, as he was superseded by General J. C. Pemberton.

The battle of Corinth was fought October 3 and 4, 1862. I do not know the number of troops engaged, but our loss was heavy. According to General Van Dorn our loss was: Killed, 594; wounded, 2162; missing, 2102. Total, 4858. The enemy reported: Killed, 355; wounded, 2841; missing, 319. Total, 3515. But if General Rosecrans stated the truth, our loss was much greater than General Van Dorn gave, as he (General R.) stated that they buried 1423 of our dead, which I think is erroneous. Company C lost our captain, James A. Jones, mortally wounded; John B. Long and L. F. Grisham, captured. As Captain Jones could not be carried off the field, Long remained with him and was taken prisoner, being allowed to remain with Captain Jones until he died. They were sent to Louisville, Ky., and then to Memphis, Tenn., where Captain Jones lingered for three months or more. After his death, Long, aided by some good women of Memphis, made his escape and returned to us.

It was at the battle of Corinth that the gallant William P. Rogers, colonel of the Second Texas Infantry, fell in such a manner, and under such circumstances, as to win the admiration of both friend and foe. Even General Rosecrans, in his official report, complimented him very highly. The Federals buried him with military honors. It was at Corinth, too, that Colonel L. S. Ross, with the aid of his superb regiment, the Sixth Texas Cavalry, won his brigadier-general’s commission.

The evening before reaching Holly Springs we had what in Texas would be called a wet norther. Crawling in a gin-house I slept on the cotton seed, and when we reached Holly Springs I had flux, with which I suffered very severely for several days, as the surgeon had no medicine that would relieve me in the least. In a few days we moved south to Lumpkin’s Mill, where we met our horses and were remounted, the Third, Sixth, Ninth and Whitfield’s Legion composing the cavalry brigade, which organization was never changed. The army was soon falling back again, and continued to do so until it reached Grenada, on the south bank of Yalabusha River.

As we were now in the cavalry service we did the outpost duty for the army north of the Yalabusha.